


tender is the night

by EmergencyBroadcastSystem



Series: Deliverance [6]
Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Angst, M/M, Priest!Nikandros, Unresolved Sexual Tension, demon!Laurent, light gore, religious convention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-06 23:17:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18398354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmergencyBroadcastSystem/pseuds/EmergencyBroadcastSystem
Summary: Hounded by all evil things, wounded and on the run, a harried and formally ex-communicated priest carries a reluctant demon to an abandoned cabin. The demon is dying, beaten within an inch of his life, and the only thing the priest can do now is...something drastic.





	tender is the night

**Author's Note:**

> This fic will make a bit more sense if you've read [Heavenly Flesh](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15637338)
> 
> sorry for starting this in the middle of the story. I could only motivate myself to write the good bit. also im sorry for abandoning all my capri works and disappearing into the woods. also also sorry for failing to respond to a lot of the comments some people have left on my work, I really appreciate them and read every one, but last year some things happened and I got a little bit... yeah :0 Anyways since that's all I can think of to apologize for, please enjoy :)  
> x  
> x  
> x  
> x  
> x  
> -  
> ❤

After three blows with the grip of his empty pistol, the rotten wood gave way and the padlock clattered to the floor. Nikandros wasted no time gathering Laurent in his arms and dragging him inside, kicking the door shut behind him.

The cabin was startlingly dark after the blistering afternoon they had stepped out of. The air was cooler, too, and smelled of decay and neglect. Every breath swirled the dust motes around them. Nikandros tasted it in his mouth like ash.

He had no doubt the creatures they’d been fighting would follow them. They had left so much blood in their wake, and in their desperation had made no effort to hide their tracks.

Laurent hung off Nikandros’ shoulder, blood soaked through his tattered shirt, legs shaking. One of his eyes was already awash with the blood that dribbled sluggishly from his scalp while the other eye was a glossy, blank blue. One of his horns were missing, the flesh exposed in deep scarlet. His wings dragged behind him, limp and loose.

Nikandros cradled the back of the demon’s skull, setting him down on the floor of the cabin as gently as he could manage. Dust gritted into Laurent’s open wounds, but he didn’t really have the time to worry about that. He searched the cabin and found nothing—no antibiotics, no gauze, not even rubbing alcohol. He eventually dug out some old, moulding bedsheets and a dusty metal bath large enough for Laurent to lie in. He dragged it into the middle of the room.

“You… should go,” Laurent murmured. His bloodied eye had shut, leaving only a singular, glassy blue gaze, “You can leave me.”

Nikandros ignored him, wrapping his arms around his pale chest and heaving him up. The demon was heavier than he looked, his wings awkward to manage. Nikandros dragged him to the dusty bath and laid him down. His wings spilled out of the sides, twitching across the rough floor.

Anger flickered across Laurent’s expression and he opened his mouth to protest again but the movement sparked pain and he winced instead. He gripped the sides of the bath with white knuckles. When the feeling passed, his head dropped back on the rim of the bath with a dull thunk.

Nikandros watched him intently.

Angels couldn’t heal demons. Humans weren’t much more use—without at least a first aid kit Laurent would die. And he would die soon, if the amount of blood he has scattered across the forest was any indication.

Nikandros rubbed the toe of his boot across a small white thing that had fallen from Laurent’s side. Even dusty, the feather was a beautiful pure white.

Nikandros tensed his jaw.

There was a pump just outside the back door. Nikandros returned from it with a heavy bucket, resting it on the edge of the bath before tipping it inside.

Icy water hit Laurent’s torn stomach and he arched, face contorted with pain. He arched again, claws squealing on the metal, but he didn’t make a sound. When Nikandros shook the last drops from the bucket, Laurent sagged into the cold water, face colourless and waxy.

Nikandros returned. And returned. When the water line reached Laurent’s armpits, he stopped reacting, staring sightlessly up at the dark ceiling. Finally, Nikandros was satisfied, and set the bucket down with finality. He approached the foot of the bath, standing with one leg at each side.

“I don’t know how this is… supposed to help,” Laurent muttered, voice weak. Every breath was a shivering gasp.

“Forgive me for this,” Nikandros asked, quietly.

Laurent’s face registered surprise—before Nikandros wrapped one hand around the demon’s face, the other around his neck, and shoved him under the water.

Before Nikandros had even started praying, there were claws buried in his arms. Scarlet swirled around his arms, half human half demon, water lapping onto the floor.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” Nikandros spoke, voice strong and steady, “Blessed are you, Lord, all-powerful God, who in Christ, the living water of salvation,  
blessed and transformed us.”

Claws scrambled at his forearms, but Nikandros registered the pain distantly. The water churned, the wings flapped and scraped across the floor. Nikandros’ arms shook as the demon struggled, desperately.

“The blessing of this water reminds us of Christ, the living water, and of the sacrament of Baptism, in which we were born of water and the Holy Spirit,” Nikandros said, “O Holy Spirit, giver of life, from the baptismal font of the Church you have formed us into a new creation in the waters of rebirth,”

Scarlet shone in every inch of Nikandros’ ragged arms. There were no distinct claw marks any more, only a mess of ragged flesh. Nikandros’ shoulders shook with effort, but the resistance had weakened too, the bloody, clawed hands only wrapped around his wrists for support.

“Grant that when we are sprinkled with this water or make use of it, we will be refreshed inwardly by the power of the Holy Spirit,” Nikandros gritted out, “We ask this through Christ our Lord.”

Laurent’s hands went slack, slipping into the water. The wings shuddered and stilled, curling at the ends.

“Amen,” Nikandros gasped.

There was silence, save for the dripping water from the rim of the bath. The house creaked in the wind, timbers groaning. Nikandros sunk to his knees. He regarded his arms with disinterest. Blood shone bright like clean cut rubies.

His vision was getting cloudy. Every gasp of air was raw and uncomfortable, like every breath took something from him. He reached with a shaking, bloody hand and rubbed his chest. Pain sparked in his elbows, sharp and piercing.

Nikandros heard more than saw the _thing_ surge up from the bath.

Hands collided with his shoulders and he was shoved back. His skull hit the floor with a crack, sparking stars in his vision. Water rushed over him, pink with his blood, and cold like ice. Nikandros saw the pale shape rise above him, blurry as his vision swam with tears.

Claws prickled across the flesh of his throat, sharp like a warning. Nikandros’ eyes flickered shut as fear burned in the pit of his stomach. Desperately, he hoped it would be quick, but he knew it wouldn’t.

He waited for the claws to pierce his throat. He waited.

Something sharp traced his pulse point, stroked the underside of his chin and tipped his head back.

He was kissed.

Nikandros’ mouth opened in surprise, and the thing licked inside. The thing was hot—burning, scaldingly, unbearably hot, like a mouthful of magma. There was a strange, severe taste to the kiss, like the tang of oil.

When he kiss broke, Nikandros’ eyes opened narrowly.

The thing rested lazily above him, long white hands wrapped around Nikandros’ wrists. It was Laurent—but it wasn’t at the same time. His hair was paler, and longer, loose curls of a bright, white-gold. His eyes were darker, a deep sea blue, his features had shifted slightly, although in what way Nikandros couldn’t identify.

Where once the bloody crater of the remains of Laurent’s other horn had been, there was now only healed flesh and whiteish hair. As Nikandros’ eyes travelled down the rest of the creature, he saw plain, healthy flesh. Only his bloody clothes were evidence of the trauma.

“You are forgiven,” Laurent murmured against Nikandros’ jaw, “If you’re wondering.”

“Right,” Nikandros said, shaking himself slightly, “I thought… I figured you—well if you’re half and half, or whatever, I could heal half of you. I mean, Damianos said holy water could give him strength.”

“I wonder what you would have done if it hadn’t worked,” Laurent said, his leathery wings arching behind him, “What if I had just turned on you?”

“I wouldn’t have done anything,” Nikandros murmured, “You would have just torn out my throat.”

“And what a nice throat it is,” Laurent said, running his nose over the side of Nikandros’ neck.

Nikandros swallowed.

“I’m starting to see the value in keeping you around,” Laurent said, “Damianos was right about you, as he always is, frustratingly.”

Hesitantly, Nikandros reached up to touch Laurent’s sides—to pull him closer or push him away he wasn’t sure—and found his hands buried in soft downy feathers. He rubbed them between his fingers, and unlike Damen’s sharp, straight feathers, they shed into his hands, like soft clouds.

Laurent’s fangs sunk into his shoulder.

Nikandros bucked in surprise, tearing out fistfulls of feathers, “What—what was that for? I thought you’d forgiven me.”

“I have,” Laurent lapped at the wound, “This is a special kind of bite. It’s so I can keep track of you.”

“Right,” Nikandros said, uncertainly.

“Don’t worry,” Laurent said, “Plenty of priests have gotten bitten by a demon like this, historically.”

“Right,” Nikandros said, “Not sure that’s as comforting as you make it sound.”

Laurent smiled at him. Nikandros’ blood shone on his long fangs—and Nikandros felt a twinge of shame, for that mouth sparked thoughts in him which were not very priestly.

“We should go,” Laurent said, a note in his voice that was almost reluctantly, “Damianos will need our help.”

“But my arms...” Nikandros trailed off as he caught sight of his forearms. They were completely healed. Where Damen wiped away every trace of a wound, these had healed more organically, his arms streaked with thin, raised scars, “You healed them?”

With one smooth, elegant move, Laurent rose upwards, pulling Nikandros up with him by his wrists, “Of course I did. That’s what the kiss did.”

Nikandros allowed himself to be tugged out of the cabin, touching his lips absently, “Right.”


End file.
